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"/ Know That Man 



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Copyright, 19 18 
The Siegfried Company, Inc. 



Published by 
The Siegfried Company, Inc. 
20 Vesey St., New York 



©CLA501428 

JUL "^ i^»S 



'/ KNOW THAT MAN" 



by 



• Harry Varley 



FOREWORD 

Every true lover of America has seen this man 
at some time or another. 

Everyone has felt the tremendous influence of 
his presence. 

YOU might have seen him as the departing 
soldiers passed on parade; when the flag climbed 
to the top of the staff and the hand struck up the 
national hymn; when the thinned, faltering ranks 
of the Blue and Gray veterans made their yearly 
pilgrimage to their beloved dead, or when the fife 
and drums wiped out the years between and car- 
ried you back to other days. 

But he came closest to you when the big call 
tvas sounded and you gave up the dearest treas- 
ures of life — son, brother, husband or friend. It 
was his spirit that gave you courage to send them 
to the battle! The example of his life and death 
that kept the proud, glad smile on your lips — and 
on theirs — though your heart wept a rain of 
tears! 

THEN, if never before, you knew this man 
and all that he has meant and does mean to 
America. 

H. V. 

Port Washington, 
Long Island. 



"/ KNOW THAT MAN" 

CHAPTER I. 

'FHE room clerk at the Hotel mechanically 

swung around the book, dipped the pen in 
the ink and handed it to the incoming guest. 

The hand grasping the pen, as it showed up 
in sharp contrast to his own, caught the clerk's 
attention. It was a large hand and bony and 
gave the impression of having been shaped by 
severe manual toil. There were strength and 
power in the three sinews that stood out like 
whipcords running from the first three knuckles 
to the thin, wiry wrist. 

Then it was the clerk looked up to find be- 
fore and towering above him a bearded, heavily- 
lined face in which deep-set eyes burned in the 
hollows made by the high cheek bones and the 
slightly over-hanging brows. 

There was a brief pause as the guest hesi-, 
tated with the pen hovering over the register. 
Then, with a faint curl of the lip that might 
have been a whimsical little smile or a touch of 
amused scorn, he wrote slowly and deliberately, 

JOHN SMITH, 
leaving vacant the space for location. 



Handing back the pen to the clerk, the guest 
stood silently while the book was swung around. 

^'What city, Mr. Smith ;" asked the clerk. 

"Is it necessary?" 

**It is customary, Mr. Smith." 

''Write Washington, if you please." 

The arrangements being made, a boy took 
the guest's bag and walked ahead ; John Smith 
gazed straight at the clerk for the briefest pos- 
sible moment, then turned and followed the boy 
to the elevator. 

For once in his long career the clerk forgot 
himself while on duty. Elbows on the desk, he 
leaned forward and watched the retreating fig- 
ure as it stooped low to enter the elevator and 
until the door was closed upon it. Even then he 
remained in the same rapt pose until the insist- 
ent cough of the manager broke in upon his 
dreaming. 

*'I — er — beg your pardon, Mr. Connolly! I 
was thinking." 

"Of what?" 

The clerk pointed to the register. 

"That man — John Smith — I know him. I 
have seen his face before, and you know, Mr. 
Connolly, I never forget a face, but I can't place 
him — and yet he might be — no, I simply can't 
place him." 

"S'pose that's his right name?" 

"I'm sure it's not." 

"Think he's all right?" 

"I know it. He's some big man. His name 



is on the end of my tongue. I'll surely remem- 
ber him." 

"If you do, let me know ;" and the manager 
turned away to look up Wilkins, the hotel de- 
tective. 

The clerk was still thinking, for he tapped 
on the desk with the pen, and if one could have 
crept near to him he would have heard him 
mutter, 

**John Smith — but it can't be. / know that 
man." 

CHAPTER II. 

'PHE next day John Smith was sitting in the 

writing room, with the palms of his hands 
on' the table, his fingers outstretched. He was in 
deep thought. 

A bell-boy burst into the room, paused long 
enough to cry, "The Germans have sunk the 
Lusitania! Nearly all on board drowned!" and 
he was gone. Pens were dropped, white-faced 
men hurried from the room, leaving the solitary 
figure at the table. John Smith was motionless. 
He might have been sitting for a sculptor. . . . 

Except that the slightly protruding lower 
lip was drawn and thin. 

Then, slowly, the long fingers began to draw 
together until the big fists were clenched. They 
alone betrayed the overwhelming intensity of 
feeling. The skin, stretched over the knuckles, 
threatened to split. Something was being 



8 

crushed in these two vises of flesh, blood and 
bone. It was the grip of a man who seizes some 
mad animal by the throat and who knows that 
to relax that hold for an instant is to die. 

For half an hour John Smith remained. 
Rising, he passed out into the open air, forget- 
ting his hat. 

CHAPTER III. 

A MERICA, the big, the beautiful, was in the 
grip of an octopus. Its slimy tentacles were 
thrust out in every direction. They enveloped 
the laborer digging in the ditches and reached 
out and grasped those who sat in the high places. 
It twisted its vicious coils around the throat of 
the nation and choked back words that should 
have been spoken. 

Like the real octopus, its blood was ink, and 
it spurted the vile, filthy fluid so that it mingled 
with the good, clean ink used on even the best 
and cleanest presses, and newspapers and books 
of all kinds reeked with it. 

Most people surrendered unknowingly to 
the creature. The baleful eyes of it possessed 
some strange, serpent-like fascination which 
hypnotized them. The coils that were con- 
stantly tightening around them were so soft, so 
sinuous, they were scarcely felt. The suckers on 
the tentacles that were drawing the life-blood 
from their hearts, instead of making them real- 
ize the danger, were drawing out of them all 



9 

resistance and inducing a pleasant desire to 
sleep. 

It was the sleep similar to that which over- 
takes a traveler lost in the Alpine snows. . . . 

Or the African who eats of a certain 
berry. . . . 

Or him who is overcome by some odorless, 
poisonous vapor. . . . 

And from such a sleep there can be no 
awakening. 

It was said that the creature had a firm grip 
on him who sat, lonely in a multitude, solitary in 
the crowds that thronged the White House; the 
calm, thin-faced man, with the care-and-study, 
worn look. It was also said that this was a 
black lie. 

For a time it seemed that the country was 
lost — as if traditions were forgotten. The spirit 
that made Boston Harbor a gigantic tea-pot was 
dead. Liberty itself, like the poor cracked bell 
in Independence Hall, had no voice to arouse the 
people from their stupor. World events ; great 
upheavals in humanity; earthquakes among na- 
tions; tottering thrones — all were insufficient to 
open the eyes of those who refused to see. As 
though a man on a sinking ship should compose 
himself for sleep, saying, "At any rate, my 
berth is dry!" 

There were some who, with bare hands, at- 
tacked this creature that it might not destroy 
the fairest of lands. And the blind, unseeing 
victims that they were trying to save accused 



10 

them of cruelty, treachery and worse. The 
Colonel from Oyster Bay ; the General from New 
York; the Governor from California and others 
fought hard against this Thing. 

At the bottom of the sea there was also that 
which, fifty years ago, would have brought the 
weaver from his loom, the farmer from his 
plough, the banker from his desk and the 
preacher from his pulpit. As one man they 
would have listened to the cries of the little 
children — their own people; the women — who 
were their own sisters — and the men whose first 
breaths had been drawn in American air on 
American soil, and were, in very truth, their 
blood brothers. 

Men would have shouted in such a terrible 
voice that the whole v/orld woul'd have quivered 
with their, 'This shall not be!" and lives would 
have been given as freely as if each one were but 
the chaff from a single grain of wheat. Two 
streams — two mighty rivers — would have run 
from this land ; one of gold, the other of blood. 

But the ears of the people were stopped, 
their eyes blinded and perceptions dulled, envel- 
oped in the slimy, strangling folds of the octo- 
pus. It had many names — Pro-Germanism, 
which was inadequate; Pacifism, which was 
wrong, and Socialism, which was absurd. 

There was no real name for this Thing 
which was absorbing the soul of the youngest, 
strongest nation of them all. 

It became necessary that this creature 



11 

should die that America could live. A man big 
enough and strong enough, armed with the 
proper weapons, was needed to slay the monster. 

The name of such a man was unknown. . . . 

Unless it were John Smith. 

CHAPTER IV. 

A BIG crowd surrounded a speaker on Boston 
Common. He was one of those men who 
claimed that the country was not in the toils of 
an octopus, and even if it were true, an octopus 
was a kind, gentle creature that we should nurse 
in our bosom. 

He was an orator. He gripped the people 
by the sheer fervor of his speech and the words, 
gestures and pauses which are specious tricks of 
the professional speaker. Tangling his listeners 
in the labyrinths of argument ; losing them for a 
moment in a maze of statistics, only to appear 
later as a guide to lead them back to the road ; 
appealing to their many natures by devious 
sophistries, he held them, silent; tense; hanging 
on every word. 

Suddenly there was a slight movement in 
the back of the crowd. A man, head and shoul- 
ders above the rest, was seen to be approaching 
the speaker. It did not seem as if he were push- 
ing his way through the packed mass ; nor did 
the people open a passage for him, but slowly, 
persistently, he drew nearer the improvised 
platform. 



12 

When he was within ten feet of the speaker 
he stopped. The crowd sensed that something 
was happening. As though thought and speech 
were failing him, the speaker's sentences began 
to falter. He stammered, looked away, but as if 
drawn by some invisible force, his eyes ever 
turned back to the tall figure which stood appar- 
ently intent upon the discourse. 

The words trailed off into a mumble. The 
speaker turned and whispered to a man near him 
on the platform. This man shook his head vig- 
orously and urged the lecturer to proceed. Mur- 
murs, inquiring, half-threatening, were heard on 
the edge of the crowd. Then a man abruptly 
left the platform and approached the tall lis- 
tener. 

"Vve been requested to ask you to go away — 
please," he said, earnestly. 

A policeman elbowed his way to the couple. 

"What's the trouble here now?" 

The man from the platform spoke: 

"This man is annoying the lecturer and 1 
asked him to go away." 

The policeman glanced from the speaker to 
the other silent figure. Then his hand went to 
the salute as if he recognized a superior officer. 

"Beggin' your pardon, sir. I didn't know it 
was you, Mr. — Mr. " 

The policeman laid his hand on the shoulder 
of the man from the platform and whispered : 

"He's all right. You'd better tell your pals 
to watch themselves." Then, touching his cap, 



the policeman walked around the inside of the 
semi-circle made by the people standing around 
the platform and disappeared. Another speaker 
had commenced, but his words fell on inattentive 
ears. Some on the outer edge began to move 
away, when a burly, bulldog-faced man emerged 
from behind the platform, carrying a short, 
heavy stick. 

He came directly to John Smith. The crowd 
drew closer. The speaker stopped. 

"Now then, you, clear out of this!" and the 
newcomer thrust his face up until it was on a 
level with the bearded chin. It was the meeting 
of man and brute. John Smith looked down and 
his head motioned an almost imperceptible nega- 
tive. The stick was raised threateningly. 

"I won't arsk yer agen. Get out o' here an' 
don't break up the meetin' !" 

John Smith's eyes lit up with a dangerous 
fire, but his voice was gentle as he replied : 

"I shall stay until you go and until they go. 
That is why I came." And he motioned toward 
the men on the platform. 

What happened then was so unexpected 
that it was over before the people could realize 
it. The stick went up to strike, but the blow, 
instead of falling on the face of John Smith, 
was caught on the black wrist of a negro stand- 
ing near. There was a sharp crack as the bone 
broke. Again the stick went up, and again the 
negro took the blow — this time full on the 
temple. He dropped. The mob surged forward, 



14 

breaking into two lines at the spot where John 
Smith was holding the limp negro in his arm. 
The man with the stick was caught; his collar 
was torn from his neck, while three crimson 
scratches were made down his face by someone 
who ineffectually tried to hold him. He was car- 
ried forward, knocked down and trampled un- 
der foot. Reaching the platform, they pro- 
ceeded to demolish it with a blind fury. The 
occupants fled, beaten and bruised. It seemed as 
if a spell holding the people had been broken — 
that they had at last realized that this platform 
and the men speaking from it were horrible, 
blasphemous, and that treachery and vile things 
had been thought and even spoken in the shadow 
of the golden dome of the State House and the 
Stars and Stripes that flew over all. 

It was only when the police came in force 
that order was restored. An ambulance had 
been called. As they put the negro on the 
stretcher he recovered consciousness for a mo- 
ment and looked up. John Smith bent over him. 

"Thank you, my friend, I am indebted to 
you for my life." 

The negro shook his head, and there was a 
gladness out-showing the pain and agony which 
had brought the perspiration to his forehead. 

Slowly he lifted his hand to wipe away the 
red that trickled down from an ugly gash into 
his blinded eye. 

"Yo' doan' owe me nothin', boss. Ah was 
on'y payin' yo' back — payin' yo' back " and 



15 

his eyes closed again as the white-uniformed 
men lifted him into the ambulance and drove 
away. . 

CHAPTER V. 

r^NE afternoon in the summer of 1915 a man 
walked through a certain Square in Wash- 
ington. People turned to look at him as he 
passed, but he heeded none. He came to the 
flagstaff. The cord, moved by a faint breeze, 
was tapping against the staff, and the flag 
flapped lazily to and fro. 

The man raised his hat. 

Still keeping to the path, he reached the 
intersection where, before a bronze statue, a 
group of people stood in respectful attention. 
The men were bare-headed. A large butterfly, 
black and gold, flitted above the crowd. 

A boy of twelve or fourteen was i;eading the 
inscription on the base of the monument. His 
voice was clear, and with that conscious pride of 
childhood showing its ability, he enunciated 
every word in classroom fashion. 

The man listened attentively, but it was 
noticeable that of all the men, he alone had not 
removed his hat. As he listened, there came 
again to his lips that ghost of a smile, the mean- 
ing of which was so hard to define. The boy 
finished. A bee passed over them droning his 
way like a distant airplane. 

The statue was Abraham Lincoln. 

The man was John Smith. 



16 



CHAPTER VI. 

nPHERE was another day when the man named 
Smith went to the ticket office of a railroad 
station. 

*1 want a ticket for Oyster Bay, if you 
please." 

"Single, sir?" asked the clerk. 

"No ! Give me a return ticket, please." 



CHAPTER VII. 

npHE Colonel was hacking away at a tree stump, 
sleeves rolled up, muscles bared and per- 
spiration gleaming on every visible part of him. 
The stump seemed to be something animate that 
it was necessary to kill. It might have repre- 
sented all the evil in the world — some wicked 
dragon which he alone could exterminate by the 
power of his arms and the aid of his trusty axe. 

Presently he became aware of someone 
standing there beside him; someone standing 
over him, in fact, which could have been due to 
the extreme tallness of the stranger or to the 
slightly higher ground on which he stood. The 
Colonel dropped the axe, wiped his hands on a 
handkerchief, and as he did so, said in his pleas- 
antest voice: 

"Excuse me ! Didn't see you standing there. 
Glad to see you, I'm sure." He thrust out his 



17 

strong hand, which was enveloped in a stronger, 
and there was the big grip of two such men when 
they meet, then — 

"Let me see, you are " 

The quiet voice broke in : 

"Smith— John Smith." 

"Delighted, Mr. Smith. Knew your face the 
minute I saw you, but couldn't remember the 
name. I meet so many people, y' know. What 
can I do for you?" 

"For me — nothing. For yourself and for 
the country — everything, if you will." 

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Whom do 
you represent?" 

The intruder passed the back of his hand 
across his forehead with a weary gesture. 

"I represent the people who are disap- 
pointed in you and those who still retain their 
belief in you in spite of everything." 

There was nothing but a quiet, gentle force 
in the lowly spoken words, but the cheeks of the 
Colonel flushed. He would have spoken, but the 
hand of John Smith was raised in such a way as 
to forbid interruption. 

"I knew if I came to see you, you would 
write and speak to the tens of thousands of our 
young men who love you, the thousands who feel 
that they should despise you and to the few who 
are indifferent. I knew that, regardless of the 
personal glory to be obtained and the inevitable 
condemnation you would receive, you would 
point out to them the way that would lead them 



18 

in the right direction — that you would call them, 
not for the love of you or adventure, but for the 
love of America and democracy. You could in- 
spire them with that high courage, that noble 
sense of duty which would make them lay down 
their lives on the altar of Freedom with the 
same pure abandon that, out of all the suffering 
and sorrow of the Civil War, made the States 
arise United — at last a unified nation among the 
nations of the world. 

*'I thought that you would sweep the coun- 
try as by fire — that at the sound of your voice, 
the empty ranks would be filled, the ships would 
be manned, and in the thunder of the tramp of 
thousands of feet, the cries of those who speak 
against you would be stilled forever." 

A complete change had swept over the 
Colonel's face. 

"You mean there are people who don't be- 
lieve in me — who think I am not sincerely doing 
everything I can for the good of the country?" 

"There are some — many." 

"And all I have said, written and done to 
arouse the people has not convinced them other- 
wise?" 

"In spite of those things and because of 
them, they still need proof." 

"The jackasses! The doubting Thomases! 

What have I to gain by — Why " He was 

interrupted. 

"And, like the other Thomas, they must put 



19 

their fingers in the very wounds of you before 
they will believe in you. They remember what 
your enemies have said of Chicago. . . . But I 
must go. May I take with me, where I go, the 
assurance that you will continue to give your- 
self for America?" 

Their hands clasped. 

John Smith turned away. The Colonel 
stood with his one hand on the handle of the axe. 
Before his eyes was Rubicon. He watched the 
rapidly disappearing figure. 

"I know that man — well — but for my life I 
can't say who he is. I haven't been doing 
enough. He was right." 

John Smith had vanished in the trees. The 
Colonel lifted the axe as if to resume his exer- 
cise, but instead of making the sweeping arch, 
the curve broke at the top, the axe dropped to 
the ground and he stood there thinking. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

(^HRISTMAS DAY! John Smith walked up 
Riverside Drive to Grant's Tomb. 

The church bells were ringing out the old 
message of peace and goodwill. Ironical it 
seemed while the other side of the world ran red 
with the blood of battle. 

John Smith stopped at Grant's Tomb. With 
fingers locked behind his back, he looked up at 
the words, 

LET US HAVE PEACE 



20 

His face was set like a bronze mask. His 
head moved slowly from side to side. 

"Not yet — nor for a long time," he said. 

CHAPTER IX. 

A GIGANTIC struggle had commenced in the 
■ United States — a new Civil War — in which 
the combatants fought in such a way that only 
thinking people were able to estimate the enor- 
mous forces at war by the scraps of evidence 
which came in from all sides. 

That a peril, greater than that which made 
'61 necessary, was existing in the country was 
unknown to the majority, and even clear-seeing, 
patriotic men who ranged themselves against the 
enemy scarcely understood the vitalness of the 
Thing they fought. 

In every corner of the vast country the two 
great conflicting influences were felt — the one 
seductive, evil, appealing to all that was soft and 
ease-loving in men ; the other fighting desper- 
ately against this and bringing to bear upon it 
all the glorious bitterness of the travail of 1776 ; 
the long list of the dead who died for their 
country; the splendor of the men who upheld 
the hands of the President in 1861, and the won- 
derful promise of this nation in the making — a 
promise that threatened to be unfulfilled owing 
to the machinations of this new, insidious Thing 
that changed men's blood to water. 



. 21 

And everywhere, where the battle was fierc- 
est, where the people were ready to succumb, 
was found a tall, gaunt, generally silent man, 
who, by his very presence, woke up the people 
from their deadly apathy. 

Who he was no one knew, yet it was remark- 
able that every man, woman and child who 
looked on his face was haunted by the thought 
that this man was not unknown to them. Some- 
where they had seen him before, but none knew 
where. It was John Smith. He would be heard 
of in Eastport, Maine, at a noontime meeting in 
a canning factory, and in a few days he would 
be reported at Palm Beach. He was seen in San 
Francisco, Los Angeles, Kansas City, Denver 
and Cleveland. Many times his life was in great 
danger. In Chicago the Mayor gave strict in- 
structions to keep John Smith out of the city, 
but in some way he evaded the police, and twice 
broke up the so-called pacifist meetings. 

He had an interview with the Commoner in 
Nebraska. What passed .between them was 
never published, but thereafter the silver- 
tongued orator was strangely silent in public, 
and continually seemed to be brooding. After- 
wards he offered himself to the Government as a 
soldier and then he was happier. 

John Smith saw the automobile manufac- 
turer of Detroit. He visited him at his home one 
night, and but a short time elapsed when every- 
thing the manufacturer possessed was placed at 
the disposal of the Government. 



22 

Several times he was reported in two places 
on the same day, though hundreds of miles sepa- 
rated them. For instance, when he broke up the 
meeting on Boston Common, a Philadelphia 
newspaper contained an item which stated that 
a man named John Smith had spoken to a num- 
ber of sailors who had come to visit Inde- 
pendence Hall. 

Every important editorial writer in the 
country was visited at least once by John Smith 
during the year 1916. Slowly but surely a 
change was made manifest in the land. The few 
broken murmurs increased in volume, the sound 
was caught up and repeated until it spread, and 
in every city the clarion call began to ring out— 
the tocsin — the call for Americans to justify 
themselves before their fathers, to throw off the 
Thing that threatened. 

Nowhere was the name of John Smith 
prominent, but the words he put into the mouths 
of the people were spoken ; the thoughts he 
planted in their brains germinated and grew 
into actions. 

Through the winter of 1916-17 events moved 
rapidly to a climax. The mysterious power 
produced by this one man had reached such a 
tremendous size that the nation trembled with 
its vibrations. 

In the center of things, calm, unruffled, the 
President sat waiting — waiting. Few men in the 
history of the world have met such a colossal 
problem in such an impassive way. It needed 



23 

but the lifting of a finger to start an avalanche 
that might sweep him and the country into ob- 
livion — or lift them both to the stars. 

As he sat there in his office in the White 
House, while the late March winds were whis- 
tling through the trees, he gave orders on a 
certain day that for several hours he must be 
undisturbed — that he should be left entirely 
alone to write what was in his mind. Who dis- 
obeyed him, if anyone did, will never be known, 
but torn with the stress of emotions, he heard 
nothing until he glanced up and saw, standing 
in the doorway as in a frame, a man whose head 
almost reached the top of the opening. 

CHAPTER X. 

AS John Smith advanced, the President rose 
from his chair. There was no surprise in his 
eyes. It was strange and significant that this 
man who knew no superiors among a hundred 
million, should arise, stand behind his chair and 
offer it to the visitor. 

The old smile played fitfully on the visitor's 
lips as he put one hand on each shoulder of the 
President, looked down at him and in the kind- 
liest of voices said : 

"No! I could not take that. You are the 
only one for that place — now." But the Presi- 
dent remained standing until John Smith placed 
a chair on the opposite side of the desk, had 
seated himself, and spoken again : 



24 

''Did you expect me?" 

"Yes ! I have felt for some time that you 
were very close to me." 

"Is there anything I can do — any part of 
the burden that you can put upon my shoul- 
ders?" 

"No! I must carry it alone — as you did. 
That is one of the penalties we pay for being 
chosen of the people." And the President fin- 
gered the papers lying on the desk. Then he 
began, speaking quickly and in a low voice : 

"One of the penalties! Isolation that is 
absolute. The farmer in the field can utter his 
inmost thoughts and only the birds will hear and 
forget, but when we speak, every wind carries 
the sound. Every second it travels tends to dis- 
tort it. Words are misunderstood. Worse than 
that, they are misconstrued deliberately. But 
through it all we must remain silent. The 
laborer voices his opinions how and where he 
will, but we must have none except that opinion 
which is the combined thought of the majority 
as near as we can perceive it. When a man is 
chosen to lead a people, he is no longer a man 
in the performance of his duty to that people. 
His personality, his individuality must be utterly 
lost and he must become as a judge, free from 
biasing influence; beyond and above it. It is 
wonderful — but sometimes one grows very 
tired." 

John Smith nodded a grave assent. The 
President continued : 



25 

"For more than two years I have seen a 
vision which I could not reveal. Every thought, 
every word and every action have been measured 
by the possibility — the absolute assurance that 
this vision would become an actuality. I saw 
America being led by uncontrolled, uncontroll- 
able conditions into a war which would be more 
costly in lives than any she has yet known. 
There was a time when it would have been wrong 
for us to consider it. There was a time when no 
justification could be found for stepping in. An 
alliance with Russia under the heel of a despot 
was impossible. Even England, at the begin- 
ning, was fighting for something which did not 
concern us, which forbade our taking a stand 
with her. But now it seems to me that there can 
be no other way out. I hesitate — not because I 
do not believe we are right, but because of the 
awful responsibility that it should be I, no more 
than an ordinary man except as the people have 
chosen to make me, who should, by this one deci- 
sion, plunge the country into a conflict, which, if 
we were not in the right, would be abhorrent to 
every man who can think. Could anything be 
more terrible than to have to make such a deci- 
sion?'' 

He waited for the answer. 

''Yes! There is one thing worse even than 
that. You might have been called upon to decide 
when it meant that you would divide the country 
against itself; when that decision would turn 
children against parents and brothers against 



26 

brothers; when every drop of blood shed was 
your own people's; when every square mile of 
land desolated and devastated was your own 
loved land. Yes ! there have been men who have 
had to make decisions more fraught with ter- 
rible consequences than even yours. Each of us 
has his own particular Calvary where his desires, 
ideals and aspirations are crucified. Each of us 
must immolate himself upon the altar that men 
call Duty." 

There was silence for a few moments. The 
President ended it. 

"You are right. I should have remembered. 
For me there is but one thing to do. I see it now 
— clearly. America — the spirit of America — 
jimust be made articulate. The time has come 
for us to choose and to speak, act and think 
together. There is only one thing I fear — that 
words will be inadequate to express properly the 
profound depths of the message; to reveal the 
American people, not only to the nations in 
whose ranks we must fight, but to the peoples we 
must fight against. The challenge — or I should 
say our acceptance of the challenge — must be in 
such a language that none can misunderstand or 
evade its simple truth. Shall I — can I make 
myself and my words worthy of the people I 
represent?'' 

John Smith rose abruptly. He stretched out 
his hand and seized that of the President, who 
also had risen from his chair. The silence that 
followed was pregnant with unspoken thoughts 



27 

that both men understood as if they had been 
said. In it was the complete revelation of one 
life that had been lived in service for the country 
they both loved ; that had only ended in the 
supreme sacrifice. To him who saw it laid bare 
by that tremendous silence, it was the one thing 
needful. Not another word was spoken. There 
was just the tightening of the grip, and John 
Smith was gone. 

The President stood like a man who has 
seen the great light. His eyes were fixed on the 
little flag which hung in the room. In them was 
the glory that one pictures in the eyes of martyrs 
when the flames lick their limbs and are 
breathed into their lungs. 

The waiting was ended. 

He pressed a button on the desk. 



CHAPTER XI. 

AT a Cabinet meeting held March 31st, 1917, 
the President definitely came out for war. 
In different parts of the country, patriotic meet- 
ings were held on this day. More than ten 
thousand citizens of Pittsburgh met in Exposi- 
tion Music Hall to pledge themselves to stand 
by the President. A greater number met in 
Independence Square, Philadelphia. 

Something fatal had struck the octopus. It 
had received its death blow, and everywhere the 
coils had relaxed or had been cut away. In some 



28 

few places its work was still to be seen. For 
instance, there was a private meeting in Wash- 
ington at which were Senators from North 
Dakota, Nebraska, Missouri, Wisconsin, Oregon, 
Mississippi and other States. They were plan- 
ning to betray the President and the country, 
but with motives that, to them, were pure. 

John Smith was there also. He had come 
to save these men from themselves, but when the 
Senator from Missouri denounced the war reso- 
lution in firm, irrevocable words, John Smith 
was seen to falter. His hand went to the back 
of his head and his face whitened. He woulH 
have fallen but a kindly person assisted him. 

"What is the matter? Are you ill;*' asked 
the one who helped him. 

"No! It is only an old wound I received 
that rankles sometimes. Something that was 
said recalled it." 

But this incident was of no grievous impor- 
tance. With a few similar exceptions that al- 
ways exist, the country had at last risen to meet 
its destiny; to do that which would write its 
name forever, without blot or stain, on the pages 
of Time. 

CHAPTER XII. 

TT was the hour before dusk. John Smith stood 

in the park with his hands clasped behind his 

back, his eyes fixed on the gravel path at his 

feet. In his pose was the contemplation of a 



29 

man whose work is done — a man whose work 
was almost a world- work. So might Goethals have 
stood on the heights at Culebra and looked down 
as the first ship edged and elbowed her way 
through the canal. 

Down the path came a boy; a schoolboy 
whose age at the most was nine. As he neared 
the tall, silent figure, a narrow shaft of light — 
it might have been the last ray from the setting 
sun through the trees — fell on the bearded face 
and outlined the gaunt profile with a penciled 
edge of light. 

The boy stopped — transfixed. It was more 
than surprise that held him. Here was recog- 
nition, partial but definite. 

John Smith looked up from the gravel to 
the big, wonder-struck eyes. He must have read 
the young mind and the "I think I know you" 
which was evident in the boy's manner, for the 
grave voice spoke as if prompting. 

"So you think you know me?" 

There was the natural hesitation and tim- 
idity in the reply. 

*'I know you — I think." 

A gun was fired in the distance. As the 
report came to them — a dull, muffled thud — the 
flag on the staff on the top of the hill began to 
crawl down. The boy watched the waving patch, 
he caught the gleam from the scarlet bars, and 
suddenly, with a glad cry in which was every- 
thing of reverence and joy, he seized the big, 
knotted right hand. 



30 



"I know you now ! I know you ! You are- 



The upraised finger of the left hand cut off 
the sentence, while the fingers of the right hand 
closed over the frail, slim hand of the child. 

''Yes, I am that man." 
The light died out from the face, leaving 
only the soft radiance of an afterglow. To- 
gether the two stood for a few moments. Then, 
rousing himself, John Smith put one hand on the 
boy's head. He spoke, as much to himself as to 
the child. 

"That is all that really matters, that you 
should know of me^ — should know me. Today is 
nothing, and the men of Today compared with 
Tomorrow. Tomorrow it will be you — the chil- 
dren — and they must know." 

He looked down. 

"Where are you going?" 

"I am going home to tell my mother and 
father, and tomorrow I will tell the teacher and 
all of them that I saw you and you spoke to me." 

"They won't believe you, boy. . . . But I 
must be going. I, too, am going home." 

One more tightening of the hands and these 
two parted, one to the west, one to the east. And 
when the boy reached the crest of the hill, he 
turned and waved his hand before he dropped 
down below the skyline. 

John Smith had also stopped. He answered 
the sign, then he turned and slowly walked away 
into the gathering gloom. 



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